On knitting

It was 1 o’clock in the afternoon. I finished my lunch. Edith Piaf was singing and I was knitting. It was a sunny day, and I had taken up knitting as my new hobby 3 weeks before. I always wanted to knit, since I was a child perhaps. While knitting, I missed a sweater my mother made for me. It was rough, simple and I used to call it the straw-sweater. I don’t know where it is now. I want to find it, to keep it by my side. Someday when I and my mother all die, it would stay, remain, and exist in the world. What would remain after all? I don’t really know. Is everything illusion? And the world is a big box of illusions, isn’t it? I missed also the scarf my sister made for me when she was in her second year in university. I did not like the scarf, and I hid it deep in my trunk back home. Now I wonder how much time did it take her to finish the project she had started, of which the result was not welcomed. How did she endure the fact that I refused it, that I did not like its existence? I think about my project, I ask myself how I could finish it.

In my dreams and reveries, I saw one of my neighbours who was outstanding in kitting and bakery and notorious for sleeping with many men. She knitted as if she was playing with it, her projects were much like works of art as they might be called. She was illiterate. She could not even write her own name, yet it was not uncommon that ones might see her with a novel or a paper, for which she was always mocked. Back then I was also on the side to attack her. To read a novel, it might be her dream, her whole-hearted longing. And no one among the attackers could be bothered enough to teach her how to read. And perhaps partly because she was bored with her life working her ass off to raise two children that she wanted many lovers. Perhaps she was in quest to find “an absolute lover” who could know her feelings, who could teach her the magic letters which, combined together, can make something greater than her idyllic life in the mountainous area. I wonder who were given her knitting, what she knitted for.

I think about those women knitters. And I wonder who invented various styles of knitting. Was it recorded, the history of knitting? Or it has not been ever recorded because it is a hobby of the female sex? I think about how women knitters can become great philosophers and writers if they have enough means and freedom to do so. Because knitting can be a pleasure while giving them time to think, to let their minds wander, it gives them chance to create.

Last night I spent hours thinking about organ donation. I wondered how parts of my body could work inside others’ bodies, how they could adapt to the new ones, share the same blood with a person I did not know and would never know.

These days it seems that I am snowed under with many deadlines. They come and pass me by. Yet I think I am lucky enough to manage some hours, even days, during which I am idle, laying on the mattress, staring out of the window to see how brilliantly sunny the day is, and to hear birds singing. These days I have finished almost everything I set in my recent resolution. I started knitting. And I have kept buying new books, read a few.

I missed some stitches.

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